


non norunt, haec monumenta mori

by thinkofaugust



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Early Mornings, M/M, Surprise Visits, What Can I Say?, William and Louis can't share much but they can share wine, basically these two snipe at each other for 5000 words, battlefield conversations, begrudgingly, early morning conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 09:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkofaugust/pseuds/thinkofaugust
Summary: "Deep down, Louis knew he would not be satisfied until William, and William alone was dead.But William was still very much alive. Alive and, it seemed, sat in Louis’s personal tent, drinking from his personal wine supply.[...] ‘You can’t keep doing this,’ William said eventually, ‘lying, especially not to yourself...'"In the aftermath of battle, Louis XIV of France finds his greatest enemy, William of Orange, waiting for him. Armed with wine instead of weapons, William has very little interest in fighting. He wants to talk. And, for once, Louis isn't going to argue. To fill a tumblr prompt that got a little out of hand....5000 words out of hand.





	non norunt, haec monumenta mori

**Author's Note:**

> Moral of this story? I shouldn't be given prompts. It only results in 5000 words of self-indulgent conversations between enemies. This has no real plot or purpose other than giving me a reason to let these two snipe at each other. If Season 2 told us anything, it's that sniping at each other is what they do best. Also, there's a lack of this pairing in fandom at current...so I'm contributing. 
> 
> As per usual, to be honest, many thanks to Vera_dAuriac. For the prompt. And for the many weeks of questions, doubts and waffle I sent. I sincerely hope you enjoy this!
> 
> The title comes from my copy of John Webster's 'The White Devil'. It, apparently, translates as 'these monuments know not death' and immediately made me think of these two.
> 
> Enjoy! x

He wouldn’t admit it if anyone asked but Louis had hoped that a visit to the front would have further confirmed his belief that the French army was superior. Instead, he arrived to find the troops dealing with the aftermath of a massacre. At least two dozen dead bodies were laid out on the trampled grass. Many more were wounded. Uniforms were tattered and torn. Pained cries pierced the air, no less distressing than the gunfire that had caused them.

In the middle of it all stood Philippe, covered in dirt and dried blood that Louis secretly hoped wasn’t his, but still very much in command.  The past few months had forced Louis to accept that Philippe was more suited for leading troops across a battlefield than he was, if only because the men connected with him in a way that Louis tried very hard not to envy, and so he’d had no other choice but to step aside and let his brother take the much-coveted spot at the helm. That didn’t make it any easier.

Philippe may have been their commander but Louis was still their King.  His presence was like the warmth of the sun on a winter’s day. It could raise the men’s spirits. He could rally them, show them they had his support, his gratitude. It was his war, after all. He had a duty.

Or, at least, that was what Louis told himself as he dismounted his horse, handing the reins to the nearest soldier, and strode across the battlefield to greet the men. It was just before noon. The next fifteen hours had been spent engaged in very long and even more infuriating conversations with his ministers and his brother about tactics, losses, the burying of the dead and other things he hadn’t imagined he would have had to think about today.

By the time they had finished their discussions, the sky was tinged pink, as though the clouds could reflect the blood spilt on the ground the day before.  The wounded had been tended to, the next move carefully plotted, and the men were finally settling down to rest. Louis already knew he wouldn’t sleep. His mind was too plagued with worry, irritation and anger. The possibility of failure left him feeling bitter. In truth, the bloodshed had been so great that no-one yet knew how the Dutch army had fared. Louis had a feeling it wasn’t bad enough. William still had men standing. Whether it was ten more or one less than the French army currently had did not matter.  It wasn’t about the army. It had never been really. Deep down, Louis knew he would not be satisfied until William, and William alone was dead.

But William was still very much alive. Alive and, it seemed, sat in Louis’s personal tent, drinking from his personal wine supply.

Louis stared at him, trying to muster up a feeling of surprise. It didn’t come.  He’d long stopped pretending that the Prince of Orange could surprise him. That was not the way their relationship - if it could be called that – worked. He couldn’t find the words to describe it. It was unlike anything Louis had ever experienced before. Even in this moment of defeat, he found himself relishing in it, suppressing a hint of a smile.

William returned it with a quirk of his eyebrows. He was perched on the edge of Louis’ chair, ankles crossed leisurely, with a glass of wine balancing in one hand. Someone must have left it here for Louis to drink upon his return. A humble gift for the King. No doubt William had been thrilled to have the opportunity to take something meant for Louis as his own. Better his wine than his kingdom.

Louis ignored it, not wanting to give William the satisfaction. Instead, he laid his sword down, brushed his hair back with his fingers and turned his attention to the basin of warm water one of his attendants had left on the small end-table. He wondered where they were now, then realised he didn’t really care. Their presence, like the presence of the two guards stationed outside the entrance of his tent, would only be a distraction. After all, he and William were always alone when they met. Anyone else was wholly unnecessary and, more worryingly, unwanted.

Louis rinsed his hands, the water clouding over with remnants of dirt and dried blood. None of it his. He could feel Williams' eyes on his back, hear him breathing steadily into the silence, but Louis still had no desire to acknowledge him. To do so would be to give him a level of respect he didn’t deserve. Not now. Not ever.

It was not until Louis had reached for a cloth to dry his hands on that William broke the tense silence, his voice light and unassuming.

‘Aren’t you going to ask how I got in here?’

Louis didn’t look at him. ‘I don’t need to. I already know. My tent has been unguarded since I arrived. I doubt anyone would have noticed you slip in amongst all the chaos you’ve caused.’

‘That I’ve caused? If the Dutch army overpowers the French, it is because there is inadequacy on your side rather than any fault of mine.’

‘If that is the case, why aren’t you celebrating your victory?’

‘I am.’

Louis turned on his heel, his expression neutral. William inclined his head at him, sat back in the chair, and lifted the glass of wine slightly in a toast. It was done with so much arrogance that Louis couldn't help but frown.

‘By sneaking into my tent and drinking my wine?’ Louis asked bluntly.

William took a sip, nodding thoughtfully in a mock show of appreciation. ‘You know, I’m not usually one for wine myself, but this is good. Exemplar, in fact. It would appear the French can do something right after all.’

Louis reached across the table for the bottle, peering at the label. He frowned irritably. Hardly a humble gift. ‘Of course, it’s good. It’s the best vintage I own, I was saving it for a special occasion.’

‘And, let me guess, my company doesn’t qualify?’

‘No.’ Louis said, though the thrill that ran down his spine as William’s lips tilted into a smile told a very different story. One he would not ask his court historian to write down.

William held the glass out at arm’s length. ‘Have a sip, if you want. I’m not opposed to sharing.’

‘That’s because you’re an only child.’

‘Or because I was raised to believe that salvation comes from the act of charity, from giving to those who are in need instead of hoarding one’s wealth to pay for one’s ambitions or maintain one’s delusions of grandeur.’

Silence drifted over them for a moment. Louis fixed his eyes on William, gaze steely and full of contempt. If it unnerved William in any way, he did not show it. His expression was neutral, a blank slate that Louis could not decipher.

He didn’t need to. He and William had always been blunt with each other in the past. This was no exception.

Louis inclined his head slightly. ‘Is that supposed to wound me?’

William shrugged. ‘The battle clearly hasn’t.’

 _Not physically, no,_ Louis thought, narrowing his eyes, but _it has wounded you._

He hadn’t noticed it when he’d entered. He’d tried very hard not to notice anything about William beyond the fact he was here. But he could see it now. A scratch on William’s left cheek. Probably made with the tip of a sword. It was not deep, and probably wouldn’t leave much of a scar, but Louis took a little pleasure in the hint of dried blood smeared on William’s skin. He wondered if Williams' clothing was hiding his other wounds.  Perhaps he was bruised. Perhaps he was nursing a hit to the ribs or a bullet to the leg. Louis doubted William would let it show if he was.

No.  Louis already knew he would have to hold William down and peel the layers of fabric back if he wanted to revel in his little victories. He was not sure either of them had the energy at current. Or that his guards wouldn’t mistake it for an attack on Louis’s person and run William through with a blade before their business was done.

The scratch would have to be satisfaction enough.

A few minutes passed in silence.  William sipped the wine slowly, savouring the taste. He was taunting Louis, and Louis knew it. But William would have been a fool if he honestly thought that something as insignificant as stealing his wine would get a rise out of the King. William of Orange was many things. A fool was not one of them.

Eventually, William licked his lips and said. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

‘The last time I checked,’ Louis said tersely, ‘you do not dictate where I am and am not supposed to be.’

‘No, and yet, I am not wrong.  You are a ruler, your Majesty, not a soldier. One does not always equate the other.’

Louis hummed lowly, unimpressed. ‘And which will you prove to be, I wonder?’

‘I would argue that I’ve already proven I am capable of being both.’  William replied.

‘For now, perhaps.’

William pressed the rim of the wine glass against his lips, frowning lightly.

‘Something will give eventually,’ Louis continued, stepping closer to William, ‘you will stumble, and when you do, your people will not be there to catch you. They will throw you to the dogs and leave you to rot as you left poor de Witt. And who will you be then? It will not matter if you are a ruler, a soldier, or, indeed, both. You will be remembered as neither, as nothing but the King who begged for mercy, defeated by his people.’

William was silent for a long moment, thinking this over. The last time they’d spoke face to face, Louis’s comments about the death of de Witt had upset William. He was not so easily angered this time. Perhaps he had learnt a thing or two about diplomacy in the time since. Or perhaps William was too caught up in his personal celebration to let troubles of the past worry him. After all, today, he was winning. But only for today. The French army would recover. It always recovered. And they would have their revenge. Louis would have his revenge.

‘I’ll take my chances. I would much rather be forgotten by history than remembered as a tyrant.’ William said finally, draining the wine glass and setting it back down on the table.

‘You are a tyrant of sorts today, are you not? Louis quipped without hesitation, ‘no doubt you’ve killed many men on the battlefield.’

‘As have you. Or your army, at least. The blood of good, innocent men has been spilt on this ground-’

‘The blood of my enemy has been spilt, yes,’ Louis said, ‘tell me, William, can a man be my enemy and still be innocent? Or does the very fact that he is my enemy strip him of the right to claim his own innocence? A man who acts against me out of necessity or loyalty to another still act against me.’

William avoided the question by asking one of his own. ‘Does any one man have the authority to decide if another is innocent or not?’

Louis thought this over for a moment.  ‘I suspect my priest would say that right belongs to God, and God alone. That is his belief.’

‘If I cared what your priest thought of such matters, I’d excuse myself to attend confessional,’ he sat forward and reached for the bottle of wine, refilling the glass, ‘alas, I’m otherwise occupied.’

‘Shame. Perhaps you could have atoned for your sins while you were there.’

‘Only if you atoned for yours first.’

Louis stared back at him, jaw set in frustration. He bit his tongue. He did not need reminding of his sins. They were far too prevalent in his mind. But he would not let William know that. Instead, he let silence settle over them for a long minute and he was about to demand to know what William wanted of him when he was interrupted by a commotion outside the tent.

Footsteps hurried past. Voices called out. A soldier screamed, the sound sharp and pained. Louis started and half expected one of his guards to burst through the canvass in a panic. Or perhaps it would be one of William’s men, weapon in hand, ready to slay the King of France. Perhaps that was why William had come here. He’d planned this, planned to keep Louis occupied while the Dutch army snuck into his camp and slaughtered the remainders of Louis’ men. The commotion continued. The pained soldier cried out again. The sound was followed by another shout from a few of the men, their voices strained and urgent.

Louis stirred, habitually reached for his abandoned weapon and crossed over to the other side of the tent. William’s eyes followed his movements steadily.

‘Is this you?’ Louis demanded, fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade.

William blinked back at him, momentarily confused. ‘What?’

‘If this why you’re here?’ Louis snapped, anger and panic rising inside him, ‘Did you think I would be so easily distracted that your men could pick mine off like flies? I warn you, we are not so easily defeated, as you will find out shortly.’

Realisation dawned on William’s face. He rose to his feet, expression hard. Louis tightened his grip on his sword and wished that William would look afraid. Instead, he looked affronted.

‘I have no part in whatever this is.’ William said curtly, his hand resting on his own weapon. Louis barely acknowledged it. He already knew William would fight for his life if he had to.

Louis scowled at him, ‘am I supposed to believe that?’

‘You don’t have to believe me,’ his voice was level, matter-of-fact, and Louis hated it, ‘for a rational man, you jump to conclusions too quickly. Look outside and see you are not under attack. Not from me anyway. I cannot speak for your other enemies.’

Louis’s scowl deepened. Did William really expect him to pull back the tents’ canvas and expose himself like that? If the camp was overrun by the Dutch army, they’d be able to locate him. And yet, as King, did he not have a duty to his men? If they were truly under attack, did he not owe it to them to die by their side? His conscience said ‘yes.’ His pride told him his battle was here with William. It always had been.

William spoke again, more commanding than pleading. ‘Honestly, your Majesty, I would not resort to an act of deceit to kill you. That is your art, not mine.’

That pushed him over the edge. Louis glared at him, and still clutching his sword, backed up towards the entrance of the tent. He pulled the canvas back and stuck his head out into the fresh morning air. There was no army. No massacre. The guards were still stood at their post, watching their surroundings intently but with no real distress. The soldiers’ screams could still be heard, followed by the fevered shouts of a few other men.

Louis grimaced at the sound.  ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

One of the guards turned sharply on his heel, spine straightening. ‘‘Your Majesty.’

‘The noise,’ Louis said, ‘what caused it? Is it the Dutch? Why did you not come for me? You are my protectors, are you not?’

‘No, Sire. I mean, yes Sire, but forgive me, we’re not under attack,’ the guard said hurriedly, bowing his head.

‘Then what is _this_?’ He gestured at his surroundings.

It took him a moment. ‘They located a missing soldier, he’s badly injured, and the physician had to amputate.’

‘We did not want to trouble his Majesty with such a matter.’ The other added.

‘And you did not think your King would be troubled by the sound of screams?’ Louis snapped, his gaze stony. They floundered. Men always floundered when challenged.

Well, no…not all.

He took a step back and let the canvass fall into place, isolating him and William once again.

William was still lingering by the chair, his hand firmly grasping the hilt of his sword in anticipation. He said nothing, however, too wary, or perhaps too content, to do anything more than silently raise an eyebrow in question. Louis felt a bitter anger rise inside him again. His throat tightened. His teeth clenched tightly. His footsteps were heavy and purposeful as he crossed the space again and snatched the glass of wine off the table. He knocked it back and set it down so forcefully he was a little worried it might shatter. The worry passed. The anger didn’t.

‘Tell me, is more blood being shed on our behalf today?’ William asked after a long minute.

Louis turned to look at him again, trying to hide his displeasure. ‘I imagine it will be before long, such is the nature of war.’ he said.

He thought about saying that he hoped the blood shed would be on William’s side and not his. But that much was probably obvious. Too obvious. It would be a waste of breath and a waste of time. Someone would come check on him eventually. They’d find William. And then what? Louis still had too many unanswered questions, too many games to play, to let William leave yet. Questions William was not yet willing to answer.

William hummed in agreement. ‘But now? The screams? It was not my army then? You haven’t run me through with a blade, so I’ll assume not.’

‘A soldier,’ Louis admitted begrudgingly, laying his weapon down, ‘he was injured, lost his leg.’

William did the same. ‘Ah, my condolences.’

Louis scoffed. ‘You caused this. Don’t pretend to care, you are too arrogant to fake humility at this point.’

‘As are you. You did this as much as I did. He is your soldier. He is fighting in your name-’

‘Against you.’

‘Following your orders. I suspect he wasn’t given much of a choice. If he’d refused, he’d have lost a lot more than his leg. Unlike you, Louis, I do not see the subjects of my enemy as villains in their own right.’

‘What do you see them as? Pawns?’

‘No.’

‘Prizes?’

‘People.’

‘People?’ Louis repeated flatly, ‘I doubt you saw them as little more than disposable bodies when you drove a sword through their hearts, hacked at their legs, and sliced at their necks earlier today.’

‘And you claim to be better, do you? How many men gave their lives building your palace again? Your subjects have given their lives for you and you are more concerned with your own pride than their loss.’

Louis frowned, pausing to refill the wine glass. He hadn’t planned to drink today, especially not in William’s company. The man was tricky, complicated in ways Louis felt he couldn't yet understand, and he needed his wits about him. But the day had been long, the loss great, and the taste of wine on his tongue was the only thing keeping him from screaming in frustration. Here was William, his enemy, not only on the way to victory but also in the one place he was not supposed to be able to penetrate. His privacy. His tent.  But also, his mind.

He had done though. And more. Of course, he had. Even when they were not in the same room, William was always with Louis. He had masterfully weaselled his way into Louis’s every waking thought. He even appeared in his dreams, a looming figure that was as equally intriguing and terrifying and had Louis waking in a cold sweat.  In these dreams, William would promise to tell Louis his plans. He would taunt Louis, holding his secrets just out of reach, just as he was taunting Louis now.

But this was not a dream. William was here, in the flesh, and there had to be a reason.

‘Enough small talk. Sit and tell me why you’re here.’ Louis said bluntly, pulling up another chair and setting the wine glass back on the table.

William inclined his head slightly but complied, sinking back into the seat he’d recently vacated. Silence. The seconds ticked by slowly. But not, Louis realised, uncomfortably. For all his frustration, anger and hatred, he did not find William’s company uncomfortable. It was as thrilling as it was distressing. As intoxicating as it was infuriating. He didn’t know what that meant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Louis exhaled slowly, ‘I know it’s not purely so you can drink my wine. There are easier ways of getting your hands on a bottle if that is what you desire,’ his brow furrowed in thought and he added, ‘the last time we met, you wanted to discuss an alliance.'

‘Which you clearly refused.’

‘And my opinion has not changed. I would rather die on my knees than join with you.’

‘Even if it would ensure your power? A firm rule over the Continent and England, no doubt?’

‘Neither of which would be worth the price of my soul. Or my freedom. Both would be at risk if I aligned myself with you.’

‘Your soul? I fear you're going about protecting that in the wrong way. Your wealth cannot buy you salvation or peace, Louis. Neither can combat, though you have seen little of it first-hand.’

‘What do you know of it?  You deny God entirely.’

‘No, just the worship of false idols and trinkets, of greed, hypocrisy, and trickery.’

Despite himself, Louis smirked, ‘Strange, given you’re a hypocrite yourself. A greedy one. You say I focus too much on wealth and legacy? Yet you did not hesitate at the chance to claim your birth right.’

William sighed, unimpressed. ‘As you said, it is my birth right.’

‘One which comes with the potential for glory if done well. And the potential for cautionary remembrance if not. You care more about your reputation than you care to admit, perhaps even to yourself. A man who did not care for wealth and glory would have left your country as it was, a content Republic. Only the hungry seek food, and you, William, are hungry for power, for admiration.’

‘Which you have?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm, your subjects outwardly shower you with adoration, lest they lose an eye, and bend to your every whim, lest they lose their head. That isn’t love. It’s terror. If they worship you, it is because they have been conditioned to in order to survive. Caged animals are clever like that. That’s what you’ve built. A shining, silver box for your puppets to live in. A cage.’

‘Then you are following suit.  Yesterday, your country was a Republic, today a Monarchy. Tomorrow, it shall be a prison. Then you shall understand what it means to rule.’

‘A prison? For whom?’

‘You.’

‘Ah,’ a hint of a smirk graced William’s lips, ‘you admit you have imprisoned yourself inside that palace, then?’

‘On the contrary, I’ve never felt freer.’

Silence settled over them again for a few minutes. The only sound was their breathing, heavy, deep, and in perfect unison. _Ironic_ , Louis thought, given they were so often at odds.

‘You can’t keep doing this,’ William said eventually, ‘lying, especially not to yourself. No wonder you’ve had trouble sleeping at night. The guilt must gnaw away at you insistently, much more of it and France won’t have a King left to rule her.’

Louis decided not to think about how William knew that'd he'd been finding it difficult to sleep. He had long stopped wondering how William knew a great many things.  It was clear that William had a spy in his court at all times. They would find them eventually.

‘If I’m not mistaken, that almost sounds like concern.’

‘You are mistaken.’ 

‘Why are you here, William?’ Louis asked again, allowing himself another sip of wine.

There was a pause. ‘I was curious. I have a curiosity’

‘A curiosity?’ Louis repeated dryly.

‘We have not spoken since that night at the convent. Letters have been sent, yes. Negotiations have been made. But, despite being the King of France, you have been worryingly absent from her warfare.’

Louis swallowed, ignoring the bitterness that rose inside him again. ‘As you said, I’m a monarch. Not a soldier.’

‘Clearly,’ William replied, ‘but in passing such matters over to your brother, as capable as he is, you have robbed me of the chance to communicate with my enemy on a level ground, as equals-’

‘You and I will never be equals.’ Louis interrupted.  

William rolled his eyes. ‘You are pedantic. It’s a marvel your ministers get anything done.’

‘And you are argumentative,’ Louis quipped in reply, ‘continue.’

William sat forward in his seat and reached for the glass of wine. He turned the glass in his hand, selecting a side, and took a sip. Louis watched him swallow. His skin of his throat was pale beneath his lace collar.

‘It is very difficult to judge your mind when all I have are official reports, stolen letters, and half heard whispers. How can I defeat you if I do not know you?’

Louis smiled thinly. ‘If I wanted you to defeat me, I would not be fighting a war. If I wanted you to know my mind, I wouldn’t talk in whispers.’

‘My point exactly.’

He blinked at him, trying to hide his confusion. ‘Explain.’

‘You’re not talking in whispers now. You are clear, precise. There is an intention in every word you say. It is not a side of you I encounter unless we are face to face. On paper, you are an enigma. Here, you are a man.’

Louis smirked. A man. Was that so?

‘Perhaps I do not want you to understand me. One should never be too familiar with one's enemy, William.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

No. He didn’t. He wanted to understand every crevice of William’s mind, to know his every thought and every action. Understanding someone was the first step to controlling someone.  And, he had to admit, it would be nice to truly, intrinsically, know someone else. And to be known. Not as a King but as a man. If that were even possible. Still, the prospect of William, who he had hated and admired for so long, being the one to do so was daunting. More than that. It was terrifying.

Louis stared back at him, contemplating his next move. Like pieces on a chessboard. Check. Prince takes King. Not for long. He stretched a hand out, reaching across the space between William and himself, and took the wine glass from William’s grasp. William’s fingers were cool and surrendered the wine willingly. Far more willingly than he would surrender his kingdom or his life.

William continued. ‘An understanding of one’s enemy can only be beneficial. You know that.’

‘And do I understand you?’

Louis couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw William smile.  ‘A man who shared my mind would agree to an alliance.’

‘A man who understood mine would see that is, and never will be, an option.’

‘I know.’

‘Then why do you ask?’ Louis said, ‘if you know I can never agree.’

‘Because I hope that you will.’

Louis stirred in his seat. That was not the answer he’d been expecting. In all fairness, he hadn’t known what he _had_ been expecting, some arrogant declaration of his superiority and Louis’ weakness perhaps. But it hadn’t been that.

It took him a moment to find a reply, testing the words in his mind in the same way he tested the wine on his tongue. Slowly, cautiously, as though both words and wine could be laced with poison. But for once, there was no hatred in William’s gaze. There wasn’t even any contempt.

He leant back, his eyes never once leaving Louis’ face and sighed.

Louis spoke up, swallowing his pride with another sip of wine. ‘You have a point.’

William raised an eyebrow questioningly. ‘How noble of you to admit weakness.’

‘I said “you have a point” not that I’m weak. There’s power in acceptance, you know. Only cowards live in denial.’

William chuckled lightly at that. Louis decided not to ask what he found so amusing. He probably wouldn’t like the answer anyway.

He continued. ‘You say you want to understand my mind, to know me not as an enemy, but as a man? Very well. Try all you wish, but I have one question.’

‘Ask away.’

‘If this is your attempt to do so, when do I get mine?’

A moment passed in silence. William stood and reached for the wine glass. There were only the very dregs left but he knocked it back without a moment’s hesitation before setting it back down with a smirk.

‘I don’t know, Louis,’ he said, turning to leave, ‘I’ll leave that for you to decide.’

Surprisingly, Louis found himself smiling again. He blamed the wine. He hadn’t had nearly enough to affect him, but he was positive it was behind his next words. He rose from his seat and said.

‘William?’

William glanced back over his shoulder.

 ‘We can never be just men, you and I. Our birth right demands that we are both so much more than that. And, as powerful as we may be now, someone will always be waiting for us to fail.’

 William smiled back. ‘Believe me, I wait for that day with great anticipation.’

‘As do I.’

William inclined his head politely and slipped through the parting in the tents’ canvass, stepping outside.

Sunlight streamed through the gap he left behind. It was definitely day now. The guards would probably see him. They’d raise an alarm. The camp would erupt into chaos in a matter of minutes. But Louis found he didn’t care very much. He was no more surprised by the prospect than he had been by William’s presence earlier. It was inevitable. It always had been. Just as it was also inevitable that Louis would see William again. He didn’t know when exactly, or how, but it would happen. Of that, he was intrinsically certain, without William even saying it.

That was what made his relationship with William different to any he’d had previously, he realised. It was not because they were enemies. It was not because he hated William with his very being. Or because he admired him more than he’d ever admired any man before. It was because they were, in fact, the same man, cut in half as Zeus cut down the middle of te Children of the Sun. They did not need letters or meeting or even mere words to understand one another. They already shared a mind, each claiming half for his own, as they had claimed land in this war of theirs. As a result, they understood each other impeccably, and somehow were simultaneously still doomed to never understand.  

Somehow, Louis wasn’t as distressed as by that concept as he probably should have been. No one could ever understand a King as a man. William didn’t have to. If they understood each other at all, it was as so much more than a man and so much less than a ruler. It was as themselves. As each other.  Louis sat back down in his seat, glancing between the discarded wine glass and the chair William had recently occupied and found himself supressing a smile. William’s parting words echoed in his mind:

_‘Believe me, I wait for that day with great anticipation.’_

_Yes,_ Louis thought, _he would. They both would._


End file.
